


you'll be the death of me

by itsrottenvibes



Series: TOG fic I wrote after taking sleep meds [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood, Canon Temporary Character Death, Character Death, Crusades, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25876774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrottenvibes/pseuds/itsrottenvibes
Summary: You’d fallen on your back, and the other man had followed suit, falling to his knees first, then on top of you, slightly to the left, nearly aligned chest to chest, your mouth nestled in his beard, his arms on either side of you.A pagan trickster god’s cruel parody of a lover’s embrace that you would never know.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: TOG fic I wrote after taking sleep meds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902475
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	you'll be the death of me

It could have been seconds or minutes or hours (you didn’t know; time moves differently when you’re bleeding out) since you’d slashed the throat of the man from your plague-fueled fever dreams with a kiss of your steel, just as he’d run you through with his scimitar while your arms were raised, mercifully missing your heart by a hair's breadth, like Cupid's arrows that you'd hoped would never take. You’d fallen on your back, and the other man had followed suit, on his knees first, then on top of you, slightly to the left, nearly aligned chest to chest, your mouth nestled in his beard, his arms on either side of you.

A pagan trickster god’s cruel parody of a lover’s embrace that you would never know.

The man is choking on his own blood, which with every shallow gasp, splatters all over your face and into your mouth, warm and salty and metallic on your tongue. You think you may be tasting his sweat and saliva, too. His gushing throat stains yours, and you imagine that the wound in your chest is doing the same to his, perfect mirror images.

His coarse beard is rough against your face. You breathe in the smell of his musk and sweat and blood. You are acutely aware of the warm uneasy pressure of his body shuddering against yours, mentally cataloging the parts of his body that are hard and soft, and you tense up, hastily reminding yourself of why you’d left the parish to set forth on this pilgrimage. You feel his heart pounding in sync against yours, and know that with every beat the two of you are closer to meeting your maker.

Your maker. You and he have the same God, or so you think, just different paths to that God. Why would He grant salvation to only some of His people? You bleed and die the same way, and you’re about to, right here on this battlefield amidst the swirling miasma of death surrounded by other dead and dying men, all dressed nearly indistinguishably from one another, blood saturating the parched ground. You're not so different at all. In a different lifetime, could you have been friends? Companions? Brothers-in-arms?

(In a different lifetime, could you have touched each other gently, with soft hands? Would his touch burn like the high noon sun, or would it be gentle like the afternoon light that would swathe your skin in gold? Could you have shared warmth, wrapped up in each other when it was cold? Whispered endearments in each other’s language? Fed each other dates and licked dripping nectar off each other’s elbows?)

You gaze into his dark shining eyes and are surprised to see not hatred, but recognition and forgiveness. Well, you’re _hoping_ it’s forgiveness. You shiver.

 _He has kind eyes_ , you think, feeling a stab of regret. _And a beautiful face. What a waste._

You lift your right hand to cup his face, not daring to touch, and he presses his cheek against your palm. You feel a tear run from his eye along your thumb onto your lips. You shift your hand down his face and run a thumb just under the slit in his throat with your fingers on the nape of his neck. He moves a hand between your chests, palm right over your heart. You throw your other arm around him. He nods and closes his eyes and you do the same.

It’s easy enough to pretend just a little longer, and he sinks deeper into you as you let go of every bit of tension in your muscles, basking in this exquisite warmth, almost like. . .

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at 4am thinking about intricate rituals and how Truffaut said that Hitchcock filmed "scenes of murder like scenes of love" and vice versa.
> 
> I'm implying that Nicky joined for the plenary indulgence.


End file.
